Reading the Signs
by The Light of Reason
Summary: Oneshot: Smellerbee teaches her friend Longshot a new skill, and as they work together, he teaches her some new things, too.


_A/N: This is a fic I wrote for an exchange and it's my first shot at writing these two characters, so I had lots of fun. I hope you like it, and please review!_

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Smellerbee first noticed something was off when she caught him squinting at the menu in the tea shop. At first, she wondered if he needed glasses, but dismissed the idea a second later; Longshot's aim was perfect, there was no _way_ he was nearsighted.

When she asked about it, he gave his head a little jerk and mumbled something about his eyes being tired. He then suggested that he go grab a table, although the shop was nearly empty, and asked her to pick whatever tea she thought was good for him.

She didn't object; she ordered two cups of tea – white jasmine for her, ginger and lemongrass for him – then wound through the chairs to where he sat in a corner booth with his feet propped up on the edge of the table. Once they got into an animated discussion about the Earth Rumble tour that was set to arrive the next week, the squinting was forgotten.

It didn't come up until about a week later, when she caught him squinting at a small moleskin book on the stoop of their shared living quarters, his mouth working furiously although no sound came out.

"What are you doing?"

Clearly he hadn't heard her coming, because he jumped at the sound of her voice. The book clapped shut and he was quick to say, "Nothing."

Smellerbee cocked her head to the side to better see the cover and recognized the title. "Is that my poetry book? The one from the library?"

Longshot held the book at arm's length and stared hard at the cover for another few seconds before he held it out to her with an apologetic look.

"No no, it's okay," she insisted, reaching out a hand to push the book back toward him, "You can read it if you want, I'm not using it."

Longshot looked down at the book in his hands, his face drawn and pensive. Then, his response came, low and soft as if she was hearing it from the bottom of a well:

"I don't know how."

The moment the words scraped past his lips, Smellerbee understood, just as simply as he had understood when she had avoided the snake charmer at the circus last month. Now it made sense: the way he stared hard at road signs without really seeing them; how he always preferred to see what he was buying instead of reading a menu; the awe in his face when he would watch her read for a few hours. He never asked her to read aloud, but she often would anyway, and he'd settle back, his hat clutched in his hands as he listened.

Delicately, like she was handling a camellia bloom, she said, "Oh….Why not?"

He stared straight ahead as he spoke. "My parents were farmers, so they weren't big readers. They died when I was six. I just never got the chance."

If he was embarrassed, she couldn't tell. His voice was smooth as ever, and he barely showed any emotion, not even when he mentioned his parents. She figured that much like hers, the wound had long since healed; it scarred badly, but it rarely hurt anymore.

She took a seat next to him and watched him out of the corner of her eye, her hands sliding down to grip her knees. Longshot remained silent, the book clasped in his hands as he leaned heavily forward and studied the sprout of grass in the caked earth at his feet. After a few seconds of quiet, Smellerbee inhaled a decisive breath and said, "Well, I'll teach you."

A look of surprise, halfway between disbelief and doubt, flashed across his face and Smellerbee suppressed a laugh. She shuffled closer and in response to his shell-shocked look, she pointed out in a teasing voice, "I _am_ pretty good at reading. I mean, my parents were librarians; there wasn't a whole lot else to do on rainy days when I was stuck at home." Smellerbee's voice dropped a bit. "Can I…do you want me to?"

The nod he gave her was firm and certain, so she set to work. Smellerbee leaned forward and extended a finger to draw a large character in the dirt patch at their feet. When she finished the last stroke, she leaned back and wiped her hand clean on her pant leg.

"That means book," she explained, and she looked to Longshot for a reaction. He studied the character for a long time, the only movement the occasional flicker of his focused eyes.

When she was convinced that he had turned to stone and was just about to prod him, he reached out a finger and with slow, unpracticed strokes, copied her symbol. His fingers lingered for another few seconds before he withdrew slowly, glancing at her for approval.

She beamed and leaned forward again, scratching another symbol into the dirt. The word passed her lips as she righted herself: "Arrow."

That one he seemed to like; he was quicker to write the character next to hers, although it was a bit sloppier than the first.

-A-

That was the first of many lessons, some of which were done at home, and others in the city. Amidst the haze of the busy streets of Ba Sing Se, their trips to market and treks to the peaceful fields outside the inner wall, Smellerbee passed written language on to her best friend, who absorbed it all quietly with that sharp, intent look in his eyes. She drew inspiration in the streets; she'd drag him to a shop window and point to the sign, asking him to name characters she had written in the dirt outside their boarding house or on parchment in their communal kitchen. When something caught his attention, a street performer hula hooping or a child racing on winged feet and trailing a kite, he would pull out the parchment he kept stashed in his belt and ask her to write what it was. At the end of the day, he gathered the words up, like fine gold pieces from a sieve, and sat in the corner by the fireplace, his pen scratching the characters into the flesh of new parchment to burn them into his mind's eye.

He read, too; simple things at first, like road signs and the occasional children's book, although Smellerbee didn't like to rely on those too much. She knew her friend needed something more mature. Often she would snag a newspaper in town and point him to a passage that fit his interests. He pored over the news of political change, the movement of power, and whenever a character knocked him off his rhythm he would call her name in that mellow voice and place a finger under the unknown word. Once she identified the word, he would run the it over his tongue a few times, his eyes trained steadily on the spot on the page to memorize it.

When he had read enough of the city's struggles, Longshot would curl up with one of the poetry books Smellerbee often had on hand, borrowed from the cramped, cozy little library down the floor. She'd slug anyone who mentioned it, but she was nothing if not a romantic, and the sparse texts of poetry created a well of emotion in her chest, one that bubbled with joy and simmered with discontent, one that felt both empty and overflowing. Oddly enough, when he buried his nose in one of her volumes of poetry, Longshot rarely, if ever, asked for a guiding hand. He simply sat propped against the woodpile by the iron stove, reading a single poem over and over as if seeking a hidden meaning in the words.

One day during a lesson outside, with the midafternoon sun bearing down on the hot stone step where they sat, Longshot asked something that made Smellerbee stop short. As she bent to write "burning" in the dust of the dry, cracked ground – the searing heat had inspired her – Longshot spoke up.

"How do you write 'love'?"

That wasn't one she had thought to teach him. It certainly wasn't on any menus, and she hadn't encountered a street name with the word in it. But now that she thought about it, she wanted to kick herself for not thinking of it.

"Like this," she replied. With a few brushes of her finger, the character emerged from the ground, looking out of place between "bear" and "bridge".

Longshot nodded as if she had just confirmed something for him. His voice pragmatic in a way that seemed unfitting for a sixteen year old, he said, "I've seen that one in your poetry book a lot. I figured it must be important."

"Yeah, I guess it is," she replied a bit dumbly. She felt her cheeks heat up when their eyes met, although she blamed it on the sun. After a couple seconds, in which Longshot scratched out the word in the dirt and Smellerbee tried to calm her suddenly palpitating heart, she piped up again.

"Are there any other words you want to know?"

"Yeah." His eyes flitted to the ground and he rubbed at his nose. When his gaze returned to hers, it was deeply serious.

"How do you write your name?"

Now that really threw her, and she felt the blush working its way over her entire head, wrapping around her like an itchy wool blanket. With a hand that trembled more than she'd like to admit, Smellerbee scribbled the complex group of characters into the ground.

Longshot imitated her movements in a deliberate way, each stroke weighted with purpose, as if to make a mark upon the earth with her name.

She was almost positive she caught him smiling fondly at the word, like it meant something special to him. Shortly after, he disappeared inside the house and left Smellerbee alone in the heat of the afternoon, her head spinning for reasons other than the sun.

-A-

Smellerbee peered out the window past the downpour, a call hanging on the edge of her lips. For three days now, Longshot had stationed himself on the stoop to write until darkness fell. How he could sit out there beneath the awning, writing on a wrinkled and rain speckled roll of parchment while the rain beat the dirt at his feet into a mud that worked its way into the cuffs of his pants and the soles of his shoes, she didn't know.

It had been three days of this, and her curiosity had grown too much for her to bear. With a new confidence, she marched to the door and stuck her head out to check on him.

"Hey."

"Hi." He didn't turn around, but he discreetly shuffled the papers in his hands as she approached. She clasped her hands behind her back, her fingers winding together, and leaned forward far enough to see that the top page was blank.

"Just…wondering what you're up to," Smellerbee said, aiming at casual but coming across as nosy.

"Uh…" he fumbled for something to say, curling the bottom of the page. "It's a surprise," he said finally.

"Oh." There were a few seconds of silence and she fidgeted with her sleeve. She cleared her throat and mumbled, "Well, just let me know if you need me…or anything."

He finally looked at her, craning his neck to give her a smile of thanks that made her heart flutter. She couldn't remember that happening before.

The moment she turned to go back inside, she heard a faint rustle of papers that indicated he must have rearranged his pages again. This didn't settle well; Longshot wasn't the kind to hide things from her. But then again, she wasn't the kind to get flustered around anyone, let alone her best friend. Even now, the memory of his smile, the same one she had seen at countless times, made a flush crawl up the back of her neck.

She gave her head a jerk. She must be going crazy. Nervous in front of Longshot? That was definitely new.

He remained outside until the grey light of the overcast afternoon dissolved, leaving a dark, wet night in its wake.

-A-

The following morning, Smellerbee awoke to a shaft of sunlight over her face, a warm kiss from the new day. She lay on her back for a few minutes to watch the dust dance and swirl above her head, the silence of the room pounding at her ears. With a groan of regret, she eventually rolled out of bed and stumped off toward the kitchen. She passed by Longshot's room and was met with the sight of an empty bedroll and open curtains, his pajamas in a clump by the door. Nothing out of the ordinary; he was one for his early morning walk, and most days he returned from the woods before she even cracked an eyelid.

Yellow sunlight spilled over the window ledge and onto the stone floor, marking a glowing path from the table to the counter. Smellerbee rubbed at her eye as she walked over to the counter, reaching blindly for the teapot. A few spark rocks later, a small fire licked at the base of the clay teapot. In a sleepy daze, she searched the cupboards, only to find that _someone_ (she wasn't naming names, but it was definitely the philosophy student down the hall who tried to lecture her and had no regard for personal belongings) had eaten the last of her bacui berries.

She plunked down at the table and propped her face in her hands, hoping to grab a couple winks while the water boiled. Just before she let her eyelids drift closed, she caught sight of a folded piece of paper opposite her. A closer look showed it was addressed to her in Longshot's inexperienced hand.

A minute passed, and the bubbling of the teapot reached her ears, but Smellerbee didn't budge. Her fingers tapped the table in an ostinato, eyes fixed on the envelope. It wasn't like she didn't have an idea what was inside the folds of the paper; Longshot, despite his quietness, was easy to read once you understood his body language. The poetry book, his question during their lesson a few days ago, and the past few days spent writing a "surprise" told a story that she wasn't sure she wanted to read.

She fought the curiosity for all of five minutes. When she felt she would burst from the suspense, Smellerbee reached out to drag the paper to her side of the table. With clumsy fingers, she opened its crisp folds, her head pulsing with anxiety. The message was brief.

 _I'm not good with words. But thanks to you, now I can share some that are hard to say.  
That time you saved me from getting that Fire Nation soldier, I knew I liked you. But the first time you taught me to read, that's when I knew I loved you. This isn't fancy like your poems, but I hope it's enough.  
I'll be back soon, so if you're mad, you can kick my butt when I get home._

 _P.S. – There are berries in the cupboard under the window._

She slid her fingers along the creases and tucked the letter into the pocket of her pants, a silly little smile on her face. Her eyes slipped closed as the words scrolled through her mind on a loop, following every curl and stroke to commit the words to memory.

Longshot loved her. And she was pretty sure she loved him, too.

The teapot boiling over was the thing that finally got her moving again, and she shot out of her chair to salvage the tea. As she waved a hand over the rocks to dispel the smoke, she glanced out at the window and saw a tall figure emerging from the tree line, on the path to the boarding house. The flutter in her chest that seemed to be happening more and more lately flared up again and she chucked the tea pot onto the counter to dash out the front door to meet him.

They met halfway between the woods and the boarding house, Smellerbee breathless from her sprint and Longshot looking wary. But then she threw her arms around his neck and propped her chin on his shoulder, squeezing him like a boa. She hung there for a long time, Longshot's arms around her waist, and neither of them said a word. They didn't need to.


End file.
